


her will be done

by FeoplePeel



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Marriage Traditions, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blending Marriage Customs, F/F, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Planning, Well-Meaning Meddling Family and Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 03:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: Living with Ambassador Sarek and fellow human, the Lady Amanda, Nyota Uhura has made a perfect impression on the residents of Vulcan. Not that it matters to T'Pring. She's always found a way to make things fall in line with what she wants. So when the crew of the Enterprise lands for her perfectly planned Vulcan-Human wedding with various ideas of their own, she shouldn't be worried in the slightest.Sheshouldn'tbe, right?





	her will be done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



_Before_

“Tonk'peh,”

T’Pring is momentarily stunned by the familiar greeting delivered by such an unfamiliar voice. She turns, ready to give the speaker a dressing down they won’t soon forget, but finds herself silenced by shock of a different sort. A human female with a startling grasp on the language is staring at her with equally startling eyes. Her hand is raised effortlessly in the Vulcan salute and she looks...expectant. T’Pring mirrors the gesture, mostly out of habit, but there is a bit of her that feels like letting the woman down would be a great disservice. 

“The greeting you used,” T’Pring says, gathering her wits back. “It’s too informal. I do not know you.”

The woman laughs, a deep hearty sound. “Forgive me, but I know _you_.” T’Pring waits, feeling the prickling of impatience clawing up, the emotion that she’s been meditating about in her lessons with Sarek. Eventually the woman’s eyebrows raise, lips lifting into a smile. “Nyota Uhura, Communications Officer, Enterprise.”

A drop of understanding slides across T’Pring’s consciousness. “I understand.”

T’Pring has had limited interaction with humans--and she isn’t sure how the Lady Amanda compares to a typical human--but she reads the look Uhura gives her as _doubtful_. “I’m here to study the second written language of Vulcan with Amanda Grayson.”

“That’s…,” T’Pring clasps her hand, a steadying technique she’s learned to do while searching for a word that will not offend whomever she’s most likely about to. Before she can speak, though, Uhura does.

“Surprising? Yes, I’ve heard most Vulcans don’t bother learning it.”

“I will be,” T’Pring says quickly, surprising herself. She doesn’t know why; a desire to impress, for companionship? Sarek has often stressed the importance of building relationships, a skill T’Pring has thus far not thrown much energy into. “As I will not be marrying, I have decided to pursue the profession of Ambassador.”

“A vocation you’re likely to excel at, from what I’ve heard of you,” Uhura smiles at her. T’Pring bristles for a moment, remembering Spock’s last words to her. _Logical, flawlessly logical_ , and the cutting meaning behind them. “I mean that sincerely.”

T’Pring inclines her head slightly, acknowledging. “Nam-tor smusma'es k'du.[1]”

“I hope we see one another soon."

This is how Nyota Uhura spends the refitting of the Enterprise; painfully scrawling ancient Vulcan letters and taking meals with T’Pring in the childhood home of their strangely shared connection, S'chn T'gai Spock. 

* * *

_Now_

“Your direction, Ambassador?” T’Vora’s voice echoes around the hall of the wedding chamber.

“Have Sunok carry the drum to the back corner with the,” T’Pring draws herself up. “ _Bagpipes_ that Captain Scott sent ahead. Nyota says there’s to be a dance floor--ah...how do I say...a tam lan-tol.”

T’Vora stares at T’Pring for so long T’Pring worries she’s going to voice an objection, but it seems she was merely processing because, after a solid blink she nods.

“Will we be expected to use the...dance floor?” T’Vora acclimates to the word with the same swiftness she had acclimated to Nyota. She has gained a fair amount of good will with T’Pring’s family. With many on Vulcan, and quickly too.

T’Pring can’t deny she was taken in.

“ _Kaiidth_ , T’Vora.” T’Pring soothes. “Vulcans do not dance.”

* * *

“Hello again!”

T’Pring had assumed inviting the crew of the _Enterprise_ had meant the deafeningly loud engineer, or the overwrought navigator, or the exuberant helmsman who tried to teach her how to fence. 

Admiral Kirk she had not expected.

His smile, at least, is open and friendly as he walks around the spot where she had--to put not fine a point on it--sentenced him to death.

“Nice place for a wedding.”

“I cannot determine if you are serious, Admiral.”

“Is that the same rock I landed on when—”

“Sarcasm then,” T’Pring cuts him off. “We will not wed here. These are T’Pau’s ancestral lands.” Kirk makes an ‘ah’ sound, looking genuinely interested. “...and Nyota said it would be ‘gauche’.”

“The wedding then, it’ll be…,”

“A public wedding hall. You’re staying?”

“Of course! I have to see my best communications officer get married before we take off again,” he says, and _winks_ at her. “Get to know the new ambassador we’ll be bringing on our next mission!”

T’Pring opens her mouth, and swiftly closes it at the sight of Amanda entering the clearing, Nyota not far behind her.

“Admiral Kirk! Here’s where she dragged you!” Amanda’s thin arms wind up to hug the man and he returns it.

“Amanda Grayson, good to see you.”

“The Admiral insisted on a walk to ‘clear his brain’.” T’Pring clasps her hands across her stomach. “I accommodated.”

“That was good of you, T’Pring,” Amanda grants her a warm smile.

Nyota prises T’Pring’s hands apart, slipping one of them into her own and squeezing lightly. “Breathe, T’Pring,” she says and T’Pring does.

“I did not know he was coming. To the wedding.”

“He was on the list I made,” Nyota sounds overly baffled, a sure giveaway _she is nothing of the sort_. “In any case, you handled it very well.”

“He seems to believe we will be joining his next mission on the _Enterprise_.” Nyota turns a stare on her so similar to Sarek’s unblinking own it is eerie. “I have a list of ships who have agreed to take you on as a communications officer and—”

“And _they_ are not the _Enterprise_.”

“As the wife of an Ambassador I assumed you would be amenable to spending our traditional Vulcan year touring the many aesthetically pleasing embassies of the Federation planets.”

“You assumed incorrectly.” Nyota kisses the top of her cheek lightly. “What makes for a better honeymoon than an exploratory mission into deep space?”

T’Pring watches her join the other humans, gathered in a small circle. “...what is a _honeymoon_?”

* * *

“Your intended has a point,” Sarek acknowledges on the way back from council. “When I married Amanda I was on Earth. Returning to Vulcan was sound. But you are a fledgling ambassador. Travelling with the _Enterprise_ , a highly regarded ship commanded by one of Starfleet’s decorated Admirals, will be a most beneficial learning exercise.”

“I admit a certain,” T’Pring allows a deliberate breath to pass between one word and the next, “ _recalcitrance_ at sharing such close quarters with your son.”

“It is of no importance.”

“It is of great importance to Nyota,” she argues. “Her human connections are important to her continued happiness.”

Sarek nods. He must have expected the answer. “You will find they place a high value on such things. I meant it is of no importance because my son does not intend to return to the _Enterprise_.”

T’Pring straightens at this piece of news. She would have handled any situation with aplomb, naturally, but it would be a lie to say that the largest of the reasons she attempted to pull Nyota away from the _Enterprise_ was the uncomfortable emotions ( _Guilt?_ Nyota had questioned, once, the nerve) that no amount of meditation could soothe away. She lets herself relax; there is no shame, feeling pleasure in a small victory, even if she did not win it with her own hands.

“His mother hopes this wedding will bring him home, but as it stands he will not be attending.”

T’Pring stops relaxing very suddenly. “Not attending the wedding? Clarify, Ambassador.”

“Spock is undergoing Kolinahr,” Sarek explains. “We have spoken on it often, before you.”

T’Pring ignores the latter. There may have been...mention. “It is necessary he come. T’Pau has willed it so.” 

“The monastery will not allow visitors.”

“Unacceptable,” T’Pring gathers her skirts above her elbow to quicken her steps. It is illogical, the ships will not alter their departure times for her. “He will speak to me.” 

* * *

The ascent up P'Jem is steep but T’Pring is determined. Past sand and winds and pursed-lipped Priestesses, she kneels in front of an old adversary, of a sort. 

“Spock.”

He stares down at her, a flicker of curiosity behind his otherwise blank expression. “T’Pring. You seem distressed.”

“In order to declare Kunat-So’lik to Nyota, T’Pau has decreed you be there to oversee the ceremony itself.” After a moment of silence a niggling voice at the back of her mind, which sounds frustratingly like her betrothed, forces her to add, “Nyota says, also, that she would ‘wish’ for you to be there, as a companion. Your family has made the attempt to explain Kohlinar. She persists.”

Spock smiles, seemingly despite himself. “As she will.”

“We have requested to omit the marriage drum from the ceremony, but if you have the ability, she requests you play the lyre.”

“It does not follow tradition.”

“I am marrying a human. They are illogical.” She doesn’t understand why she has to explain this to Spock. Of all Vulcans, he should understand. Perhaps the process of Kolinahr has worked more quickly on his feeble mind.

“My friend needs me,” he says, after a contemplative pause.

T’Pring disagrees. Nyota, by her observation, needs no one. This is not the goal, however, so she says: “She does.”

He stands, hand on one knee to balance himself. “I will come.”

T’Pring rises more gracefully. “I am most pleased you did not die, Spock.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I, too, am pleased to live. And I look forward to your tufeen hushani.”

T’Pring’s stomach drops.

* * *

“I told you,” Nyota laughs, chasing her around the kitchen, for that is the only word T’Pring can think to call it at the speed they’re darting from cabinet to bowl to open bags of confectioneries: _chasing_. “We don’t _need_ a cake.”

“It is traditional that the bride spends the week prior compiling the necessary ingredients and assembling the _cake_." T'Pring presses the tips of her now tacky fingers together. She is unaccustomed to touching food with her bare hands and it is, admittedly, exhilarating. She has cheated, somewhat, having T'Vora and Amanda bring her what she needs instead of collecting them herself, but tufeen hushani is tufeen hushani; it will taste the same.

“What does it taste like,” Nyota asks, when she tells her as much. “If you had to describe it.”

“It has a blend of spices meant to evoke the feeling of pon farr,” T’Pring explains. Nyota has not been a stranger for some time, but something in her still rebels at the idea of sharing such information with a human. A larger part of her thrills at the exchange of knowledge. “After the first bite is swallowed, there comes a mellow taste. Soothing.”

“Like pon farr,” Nyota doesn’t fight her smile. “We don’t need a cake for spice during the wedding.”

“I understand your insinuation, adun’a[2]. But do you not have traditions?”

“Of course I do, _adun’a_. I told you about the dancing.” Nyota leans against the counter, ignoring the mess it must be creating on her backside. “And, before the wedding, Chapel will spend the day with me. I’ll have a bath in oils she bought on Risa. I’ll ink my skin using this.” 

Nyota rummages around under the sink and, when she stands, there’s a small covered tub in her hand. Inside is a dark, red paste. 

“On Earth we make it from henna plants, but Sulu was able to find a substitute on Vulcan.”

“Remarkable,” T’Pring dips a finger in.

“Oh!” Nyota pulls her hand out and sticks it into the bucket of water next to the waste basket. T’Pring rubs her fingers together again, the dye and the stickiness from earlier falling away. “Semi-arid zones and tropical areas grow the plant well. Turns out I picked the perfect place. I’ll even let you draw the design if you like.”

“What do the designs symbolize?”

“Whatever we want. Between you and me, my family never wore them.” She tucks the pot back under the sink. “My brother and I thought they were very pretty.”

“I will not tell your family,” T’Pring says very seriously.

“And _I_ won’t tell yours if you commission T’vora to make our cake while we handle everything that’s left? Or one of your brothers, perhaps?”

T’Pring looks around the kitchen, its ever expanding chaos.

“Between the five of them, they must be capable.”

* * *

The wedding happens the second sundown after Nyota’s parents and brother arrive. Her father, Alhamisi, and mother, M'Umbha, bring seven pigs and seeds for growing corn. T’Pring has no mother, but she’s ordered her brothers to load the Uhuras’ shuttle with ancestral pottery and other family heirlooms, of which she knows includes instructions for poisons and their antidotes, compiled by her grandmother (she believes Nyota’s mother will enjoy this, specifically). 

The priestess who presides over the affair is named Denak. T’Pring has known her since she was a girl. She had taught her, at the age of twelve, how to gently build up walls in her mind to keep Spock out. She had come to her again, when she questioned her loyalty to Stonn. It had been no great trial to find her as the wedding approached, the job for which she was initially trained. Behind her, Spock plays the lyre. The small, unselfish, part of T’Pring that remembers being bonded to him hopes that, after this, he returns to space. She does not know what brought him to P’Jem, but she knows him, and he does not belong there.

Nyota and T’Pring face one another, kneeling between berms of shovelled earth. Nyota’s family stands in a semi-circle behind her and the crew of the _Enterprise_ behind them, where the doctor, McCoy, weeps more than Nyota’s mother. T’Pring has no friends, only her brothers and, behind them, Ambassador Sarek and the Lady Amanda who she is satisfied to see.

T’Pring flexes her fingers around Nyota’s where the fresh ink on her hand is patterned in lines of Vulcan calligraphy few--including the two of them now--understand. 

"This is the Vulcan heart,” Denak intones. “This is the Vulcan soul. This is our way."

* * *

The bagpipes were a mistake. T’Pring stares at the corner where Scotty is teaching her youngest brother, Sunok, the art of the instrument and imagines if her eyes could pierce the bloated bag would _pop_. Still it is a distraction from the dancing.

“K'diwa[3],” Nyota appears at the high table, seemingly teleporting from the middle of the dance floor where she had been jumping around her brother, David and Doctor Chapel. The oils she bathed in smell sharp and sweet, like n’gaan spice. “Come dance with me.”

“Vulcans do not dance, adun’a.”

“T’Vora does.” Nyota tilts her chin towards the edge of the dance floor where T’Vora is, in fact, swaying from side to side.

T’Pring takes a bite of the tufeen hushani T’Vora had made and remembers the phrase Nyota introduced to her: _You owe her one._

“I will stand,” T’Pring leaves her spiced tea, making her way around the high table to meet Nyota by its end. “You will dance.”

“ _We_ will dance,” Nyota takes her hand, shamelessly, and tugs her along. “And _I’ll_ let us cut out early for the honeymoon.”

T’Pring meets Spock’s eyes across the hall, over the bagpipes and the laughing. She can read the humour in his expression. 

_As she will_ , she thinks, _as she will._

**_END_ **

* * *

[1]Prosperity be with you.[return to text]

[2]Wife[return to text]

[3]Beloved[return to text]


End file.
